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COBBLESTONES 

„  i  POEMS  BY 
HORTENSE  FLEXNEJR. 


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tea^n* 


Clouds  and  Cobblestones 
Poems 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cloudscobblestonOOflexrich 


Clouds  and  Cobblestones 
Poems 

By 
HORTENSE  FLEXNER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

($fce  iftitontfibe  presu  <Cambti&ge 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,    I920,   BY  HORTENSE   FLEXNER   KING 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  MY 
MOTHER  AND  FATHER 


457620 


NOTE 

Following  is  a  list  of  poems  included  in  this 
collection  which  have  been  published  in  maga- 
zines: 

"Fulfillment,"  "Belief,"  "Treasure,"  "Win- 
dow-Candle," "A  Girl  in  the  Crowd,"  and 
"Four  Things"  in  The  Smart  Set;  "A  Chinese 
Singer  of  1200  B.  C,"  "The  Holiday,"  and  "If 
God  had  Known,"  in  the  London  Bookman; 
"Faith"  and  "Purchase,"  in  Harper's;  "Re- 
membrance" in  the  Atlantic  Monthly;  "The 
Potter's  Park,"  in  the  Century;  "For  a  Child" 
and  "For  a  Portrait,"  in  the  Boston  Transcript; 
"Sand,"  in  Contemporary  Verse;  "Hunger," 
"Flanders  Hill,"  and  "Return  from  Captivity," 
in  The  Liberator;  "Compulsion,"  in  The  Seven 
Arts;  "Perfection,"  "Newswoman,"  "A  Sky- 
Scraper,"  "Futility,"  "Pierrot,"  "Peter  Pan," 
and  "The  Lost  Pleiad,"  in  the  BrynMawr  Lan- 
tern; "Longing"  and  "Minor  Poet,"  in  Poetry : 
A  Magazine  of  Verse;  "To  a  Grasshopper,"  in 
the  New  York  Sun;  "Munitions,"  in  The  New 
Republic;  "Death-Mask  of  an  Unknown  Sol- 
dier" and  "Foreboding,"  in  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review;  "Gifts,"  "A  Child,"  "Children's 
Ward,"  and  "Wandering,"  in  The  Survey; 
"Troy,  1915,"  "The  Goblin  at  Rheims,"  and 
"Bagdad,"  in  the  New  York  Times;  "Death 
vii 


will  not  Dare,"  in  the  Louisville  Courier- 
Journal;  "For  an  Old  Lady  to  whom  Sonnets 
had  been  Written,"  in  Vanity  Fair;  "Street  of 
Good  Fortune — Pompeii,"  in  the  Michigan 
Inlander;  "Dowager,"  in  the  Bryn  Mawr  Re- 
view; "Snuff-Boxes,"  in  Life. 


vin 


CONTENTS 

Faith 

1 

Remembrance 

2 

Sand 

3 

If  God  Had  Known 

4 

Children's  Ward 

5 

Hunger 

6 

To  a  Chinese  Singer  of  1200  b.c. 

7 

Masks 

8 

Wandering 

10 

Return  from  Captivity 

11 

Longing 

12 

For  a  Portrait 

13 

Four  Things 

H 

Belief 

IS 

The  Lady  Abbess 

16 

A  Sky-Scraper 

17 

The  Holiday 

18 

A  Fable 

20 

A  Pattern 

21 

Troy,  19 15 

23 

A  Meeting 

24 

For  Trees 

25 

Minor  Poet 

26 

For  a  Child 

27 

The  Lost  Pleiad 

28 

IX 


CONTENTS 

To  a  Grasshopper 

29 

Futility 

30 

Fulfillment 

3i 

Death-Mask  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

32 

All  Souls'  Night,  1917 

33 

Havoc 

34 

Khaki 

35 

Mammon  Redeemed 

36 

The  Goblin  at  Rheims 

38 

Unhealed 

39 

Purchase 

40 

Flanders  Hill 

4i 

The  Sons  of  Icarus 

42 

The  Brigand 

45 

Eleanor  at  Three 

46 

Window-Candle 

47 

Treasure 

48 

Folk-Dance  Class 

49 

Perfection 

52 

Bagdad 

53 

Breaking  the  Moulds 

54 

Silhouette 

56 

Munitions 

57 

A  Girl  in  the  Crowd 

58 

To  Peter  Pan 

59 

Foreign  News 

61 

On  the  Town 

63 

A  Murder 

64 

Death  Will  Not  Dare 

65 

CONTENTS 


A  Parting 

66 

For  an  Old  Lady  to  Whom  Sonnets  had 

been  Written 

67 

Inheritance 

68 

Pierrot 

69 

Gifts 

70 

The  Wakeful  Dark 

n 

Helen  on  the  Battlement 

72 

The  Defeated 

73 

Blown  Leaves 

74 

Street  of  Good  Fortune  —  Pompeii 

75 

"Her  Name  They  Could  not  Ask" 

76 

For  the  Unknown  Author  of  Humpty- 

Dumpty 

78 

Spring's  Wares 

79 

A  Child 

80 

"Salome"  of  Henri  Regnault 

81 

Foreboding 

83 

The  Potter's  Park 

84 

Dowager 

86 

The  Masseuse 

87 

Compulsion 

88 

Degenerate 

89 

Snuff-Boxes 

90 

Newswoman 

9i 

XI 


CLOUDS 
AND  COBBLESTONES 


FAITH 


If  on  this  night  of  still,  white  cold, 
I  can  remember  May, 
New  green  of  tree  and  underbrush, 
A  hillside  orchard's  mounting  flush, 
The  scent  of  earth  and  noon's  blue  hush, 
A  robin's  jaunty  way; 

If  on  this  night  of  bitter  frost, 
I  know  such  things  can  be, 
That  lovely  May  is  true — ah,  well, 
I  shall  believe  the  tales  men  tell, 
Wonders  of  bliss  and  asphodel, 
And  immortality. 


REMEMBRANCE 

Wounded,  the  steel-ribbed  bird  dipped  to  the 

sea, 
Its  vast  wings  twisted,  struggling  with  the  air 
That  would  not  bear  it  up,  and  heavily- 
Struck  the  still  water,  sleeping  idly  where 
The  gold-arched  noon  had  lulled  it  into  dream. 
So,  there  was  foaming  tumult  and  the  fret 
Of  waves  on  heated  steel,  then  silver  steam 
That  hung,  like  fallen  cloud,  where  they  had 

met. 
And  that  small,  striving  thing  that  fought 

away, 
Free  of  the  wreckage,  did  he,  dying,  hear 
The  waters  murmur  of  another  day, 
A  noon,  now  long  ago,  yet  strangely  near; 
The  waters  telling  drowsily  of  one 
Who  with  his  wings  of  wax  dared  seek  the  sun? 


SAND 

The  sand,  which  will  not  hold  the  print  of  my 

foot, 
Remembers,  none  the  less, 
Chaos, 

The  birth  of  stars, 

And  the  sunken  lines  of  sea-devoured  continents. 
It  is  the  gray  hair  of  earth, 
Bleached  and  wave-beaten, 
That  has  known  the  passionate  rage  of  waters, 
White  heat  of  sun, 
And  the  slow  passing  of  a  thousand  thousand 

years. 


IF  GOD  HAD  KNOWN 

If  God  had  known, 

When  in  the  seething  murk 

He  bound  the  waters  wild, 

And  hung  the  skies  before  Him  for  a  veil, 

Two  souls  should  yearn  and  catch  a  glimpse 

and  fail, 
Strive  in  the  gray,  till  passion  had  grown  stale; 
Oh,  would  He  then  have  smiled 
Upon  His  work? 

If  God  had  known, 

Before  His  dream  gave  birth, 

To  moon  and  star,  flame-swayed, 

How  this  frail  lad,  chained  far  from  cloud  and  sky, 

Should,  for  a  spoken  word,  in  darkness  die, 

A  lad  of  wind  and  light,  with  laughing  eye; 

Oh,  would  God  then  have  made 

The  fruitful  earth? 

If  He  had  known, 
In  the  long  starless  night, 
Before  the  first  dawn  shed 
Its  gleam  on  cloud  and  wave  in  chaos  rolled, 
That  one  —  a  child  —  an  instant's  winged  gold, 
Should  for  her  body's  hunger  thus  be  sold; 
Oh,  would  God  then  have  said, 
"  Let  there  be  light "  ? 
4 


CHILDREN'S  WARD 

She  had  been  sent  for  —  visiting  hours  were 

past  — 
The  Lithuanian  woman  with  the  blue, 
Deep-shadowed  eyes.    The  child's  bed  was  the 

last, 
And  as  she  crossed  the  room,  she  knew  —  she 

knew. 
White-faced  she  stood,  the  broad  young  shoul- 
ders drooped 
Beneath  the  hooded  gown  that  visitors  wear; 
The  nurse  had  left  her;  suddenly  she  stooped, 
The  hood  slipped  back  and  showed  her  braided 

hair. 
There  was  no  cry!    The  Russians  weep  and 

pray, 
Italians  beat  their  breasts.    This  woman  turned, 
Asked  for  his  clothes,  tearless  and  calm  and 

gray; 
The  doctor  told  her  they  had  all  been  burned. 
So  she  was  gone  —  only  her  great  eyes  said, 
What  thing  is  lost  when  a  small  child  is  dead ! 


HUNGER 

I  have  heard  that  the  tides  yearn  for  the  moon, 

And  the  hearts  of  men  for  the  Spring, 

That  the  mountains  reach  eternally  to  the  stars, 

And  the  winds,  hungering,  cry  in  waste  places; 

I  have  heard  of  a  youth,  long  ago, 

Who  died  for  a  dream; 

But  is  it  not  odd  that  I  should  see 

In  one  face, 

The  angular,  gray  face 

Of  a  worked-out,  dull,  old  woman, 

Staring  into  a  shop-window, 

All  of  these  things  ? 


TO  A  CHINESE  SINGER  OF   1200  B.C. 

Three  thousand  years !    And  still  your  song 

Beats  in  each  word  I  write. 

The  empty  dusk,  these  yearning  hands, 

Stars,  and  the  wind  in  foreign  lands, 

A  fluttering  step  on  opal  sands, 

Deep  eyes  that  hold  the  night; 

All  yours !  Noon  adds  no  dream  to  dawn, 
Nor  soothes  the  age-old  ache; 
And  yet  I  hope  that  first  spring  day, 
Three  thousand  weary  years  away, 
My  sister  need  not  know,  nor  say, 
That  hearts  will  break. 


MASKS 

A  pleasant  scent  is  on  the  steamy  air 
Of  oils  and  herbs  and  soap.  Women  half  sleep 
Before  the  lighted  mirrors  while  their  hair 
Is  brushed,  or  while  deft  fingers  ply  and  creep 
Over  face-muscles  or  a  sagging  throat, 
That  shows  a  little  yellowish  when  bare. — 
The  room  is  still,  a  sunny  blind  is  drawn, 
A  chair  shifts,  or  one  voice  remote 
Drones  gossip  through  a  smothered  yawn; 
A  young  girl  smiles,  tilts  up  a  lovely  head 
In  a  rare  way,  that  makes  the  attendant  note 
How  she  would  lie  in  bed. 

Matrons  are  here,  erect,  well-cared-for,  dressed 
To  flash,  for  all  who  look,  the  best 
That  may  be  had  in  living  — 
Furs,  motors,  servants,  warmth  and  ease, 
All  taking,  little  giving; 
Women  cast  in  a  mould  half  perfume,  paste, 
Passionate,  idle,  kind,  in  varying  degrees, 
Their  souls  in  stays,  upright  and  firmly  laced. 
And  there  are  old-maids,  frail  and  over-bred, 
With  long-boned  hands  that  twist  a  silver  chain, 
While  puffy  blondes  decide  to  have,  "Instead 
Of  gold  this  time,  a  bit  of  henna  stain." 
And  brave  old  ladies  who  have  lost  the  fight, 
Yet  quite  ignore  the  point, 
8 


MASKS 

Rustle  and  preen  themselves,  though  dim  of 

sight, 
And  very  stiff  of  joint. 

So  they  come  in,  gracious,  aloof,  serene, 

And  sit  before  the  glass  in  a  bright  stall, 

And  face  themselves,  as  if  they  had  not  seen, 

As  if  it  mattered  not  at  all 

How  in  the  glass, 

A  certain  thing,  avoided  and  put  by, 

Comes  more  and  more  to  pass. 

They  sit  and  turn  their  heads  and  vaguely  try, 

With  an  old  gesture,  an  unyielding  trace 

Of  pride  —  to  cut,  ignore,  deny 

The  gently  crumbling  face, 

Like  a  worn  mask  —  that  gently  drowses  here 

Above  a  fear  —  a  great  crude  fear, 

A  half  seen  thing, 

Such  as  rude  peasants  know,  who  front  the 

black, 
Strange  night,  with  club  and  sling, 
Hearing  draw  near,  by  leaves  and  twigs  that 

crack, 
Some  prowling  thing! 


WANDERING 


Vague  winds  of  sorrow  blow 
Across  the  night's  wide  lake; 
There  is  a  road  I  know, 
But  may  not  take. 

There  is  a  house  of  vines, 
Where  friendly  shadows  lie; 
The  window-candle  shines, 
But  I  pass  by. 

Afar  my  pilgrim  load 
I  bear  —  yet  evermore 
My  feet  are  on  that  road, 
My  hand  is  at  the  door. 


10 


RETURN  FROM  CAPTIVITY 

After  the  longest  exile  they  return, 

Men  who  have  hung  their  harps  on  willow-trees 

Of  many  lands,  and  wept  in  dark  sojourn 

Beside  all  waters  flowing  to  all  seas; 

Their  feet  are  crowding  down  the  sacred  road, 

Prophets  in  rags,  starved  seers,  and  minstrels 

dumb, 
Marked  by  their  toil,  scarred  by  the  thong  and 

load, 
They  lift  their  eyes  unto  the  hills  and  come ! 

The  Joppa  Gate  swings  wide,  they  shall  go  in, 
Before  their  sight  the  Temple  walls  shall  rise, 
Nor  hammer  stroke  be  heard  for  the  glad  din 
Of  hearts  and  praises  lifting  to  the  skies. 
How  old  a  dream  strikes  root  upon  this  day 
They  only  know  who  face  the  Arc  to  pray ! 


II 


LONGING 

Out  of  the  night  I  hear  a  voice, 

Out  of  the  sea  a  cry, 

The  swift,  white  arms  of  the  reaching  waves 

Toss,  as  we  pass  them  by, 

The  foam  hands  grasp  in  the  emptiness, 

And  sink  in  the  black,  to  die ! 

I  lean  to  the  night,  I  lean  to  the  sea, 

To  the  round  on  round  of  blue, 

Where  the  barren  stretch  of  the  moon-laced 

waves 
Divides  the  world  in  two. 
There  is  no  comfort  in  the  dark, 
I  may  not  come  to  you.   * 


12 


FOR  A  PORTRAIT 

I  have  a  fancy 

That  my  eyes, 

And  the  eyes  of  a  million  lovers  like  me, 

Have  given  to  this  portrait, 

Painted  so  long  ago, 

Something  of  the  flame  and  renewed  passion 

That  burn  upon  it. 

How  else  should  it  live  so  brightly, 

How  should  it  hold  fresh  colors, 

Motion,  transient  mood  and  shadow, 

If  our  eyes, 

Uniting  with  its  beauty, 

Did  not  create 

The  mystic  warmth  and  life, 

Which  are  its  immoitality? 


13 


FOUR  THINGS 

Four  things  I  cannot  remember 

In  the  fullness  of  their  grace, 

Wind  of  the  Spring,  curve  of  the  sea, 

The  moon's  pale  touch  on  a  white  birch-tree, 

And  your  kiss  upon  my  face. 

For  though  I  cherish  and  hold  them, 
The  heavy  winter  through, 
Spring  is  more  gay,  the  sea-foam-wrought, 
And  the  birch,  are  lovelier  than  I  thought; 
And  a  kiss  is  always  new. 


14 


BELIEF 


In  six  gold  weeks  of  summer 

The  striped  bee, 

Still  eager  for  more  roses, 

And  sunny  paths  of  clover  sweetness, 

Dies, 

Believing  that  flowers  are  eternal. 


IS 


THE  LADY  ABBESS 
(for  a.  b.  m'g.) 

A  lady  tall  and  frail  and  rare, 
She  comes  wind-blown  along  the  street; 
From  places  far  and  otherwhere, 
She  comes  on  swift  and  gentle  feet, 
And  though  she  wears  no  snowy  hood, 
Nor  trailing  robe  —  I  know  she  should. 

For  she  has  walked  down  shadowed  halls, 
Past  pointed  windows  —  known  soft  bells, 
Dwelt  in  great  peace  behind  white  walls, 
With  sorrow  that  she  never  tells, 
And  made  those  glad  who  crossed  her  way, 
Pale  fluttering  nuns,  in  white  and  gray. 


16 


A  SKY-SCRAPER 

We  have  grown  very  sapient  with  the  years, 
And  many  things  beyond  our  fathers'  dream 
Have  done  —  made  manifold  our  eyes  and  ears, 
Increased  our  hands  with  swollen  strength  of 

steam; 
And  we  have  trained  the  rivers  to  slow  toil, 
Driven  with  whips  the  red-maned  fires  of  day, 
To  rear  a  dwelling-place  upon  fair  soil, 
Which  may  well  hold  Eternity  at  bay ! 

And  yet,  as  to  the  clouds  we  urge  the  frame 
Of  climbing  steel,  the  tongues  of  foreign  men, 
Their  accents  harshly  mingling,  still  proclaim 
The  warning  of  mad  Babel.    Now  as  then 
God  holds  us  off.    With  all  our  wisdom  high, 
We  have  not  built  the  tower  to  pierce  the  sky ! 


17 


THE  HOLIDAY 

My  soul  went  forth  in  green  and  gold, 

It  was  a  holiday; 

In  light  and  blossoms  was  she  crowned, 

The  month  was  May, 

My  soul  was  blithe,  I  heard  her  sing, 

As  she  went  down  the  way: 

"Let  us  be  glad  because  the  earth 

Is  new  with  love  and  song, 

Let  us  be  glad  that  we  are  fair, 

And  that  the  day  is  long, 

Oh,  let  us  dance,  since  right  and  love 

Have  triumphed  over  wrong !" 

It  was  the  twilight  when  my  soul 

Came  silent,  home  to  me, 

Her  frock  was  rent  from  hem  to  ruff, 

There  was  no  light  to  see, 

Below  the  tattered  crown  her  eyes 

Wept  bitterly. 

"Why  come  you  weeping  from  the  feast?" 
Unto  my  soul  I  said; 

"Bring  me,"  quoth  she,  "my  cloak  of  gray, 
The  gray  hood  for  my  head, 
Bring  me  my  robe  of  work  and  tears, 
The  holiday  is  dead. 
18 


THE    HOLIDAY 

"For  some  will  dance  and  others  sing, 

Nor  see  the  sun  drop  low, 

They  do  not  hear  above  their  joy 

The  voice  that  bids  me  go; 

The  cloak  of  gray  was  made  for  me, 

But  why  I  do  not  know." 


19 


A  FABLE 


In  the  beginning 

There  were  no  birds, 

According  to  a  fable 

Of  most  doubtful  origin. 

Even  after  the  seventh  day 

There  were  no  birds 

To  sing! 

Until,  long  after, 

The  Lord,  having  rested  well, 

Was  in  mood  to  visit  His  work, 

To  measure  what  He  had  done ! 

Then,  looking  down, 

And  seeing  beauty  was  as  it  is, 

The  Lord  said,  "Oh," 

Which  took  red  wings  and  flew, 

And  the  Lord  said,  "Ah," 

Which  was  a  bluebird, 

And  the  Lord  drew  in  His  breath, 

Whereat  the  air  was  thick  with  song. 

"All  birds,"  said  the  fable, 

"Are  God's  exclamation 

At  the  beauty  of  the  earth." 


20 


A  PATTERN 

There  is  a  vine  that  faintly  crawls 

Upon  my  faintly  patterned  walls, 

A  vine  with  leaves  that  have  not  grown 

In  any  land  that  I  have  known, 

A  wind-caught  vine  that  dimly  brands 

My  memory  —  with  its  leaves  like  hands. 

For  sometimes  when  a  pale  light  shines 
And  weaves  as  water  through  the  vines, 
Their  weary  leaves  —  I  think  I  see 
Things  that  are  part,  yet  out  of  me, 
And  part  of  things  I  cannot  say, 
As  broken  dreams  that  haunt  the  day. 

I  know  this  shadow  mesh  has  moved 
Across  some  temple  step,  deep-grooved, 
Where  I,  for  a  sharp  moment,  heard 
Bells  and  dim  prayers  . . .  The  shadows  stirred; 
Or  were  they  hands  that  beckoned  far, 
Beyond  the  rim  of  what  dead  star? 

And  when  the  moon  slips  whitely  in 

Along  the  wall,  I  hear  a  din 

Of  feet  and  horses,  trumpet  blare, 

And  see,  perhaps,  a  lady  fair 

Ride  past,  her  frail  hands  resting  cold 

On  silk  embossed  with  vines  of  gold. 

21 


POEMS 

And  once,  I  heard  a  feeble  cry, 
An  infant's  wail,  half  sob,  half  sigh, 
So  far  away  —  and  yet  I  knew 
A  shoulder  clothed  in  patterned  blue, 
And  weary  hands  that  quite  beguiled 
And  comforted  —  what  woeful  child? 

There  is  a  vine  that  faintly  crawls 

Upon  my  faintly  papered  walls, 

A  vine  with  leaves  that  have  not  grown 

In  any  land  that  I  have  known, 

A  wind-caught  vine  that  dimly  brands 

My  memory  —  with  its  leaves  like  hands. 


22 


TROY,  1915 

Past  the  gray  shore,  faint  in  the  mist  as  when 
The  shadow  ships  lay  high  in  drifted  sand, 
Swing  the  dim  dreadnoughts,  bearing  hosts  of 

men, 
To  hurl  new  ruin  and  blight  upon  this  land 
Of  ancient  wars,  where  death  still  lies  in  wait, 
And  restless  winds  bring  echoed  cries  and  calls, 
Where  on  the  vacant  plain,  those  who  watch 

late, 
Hear  the  dull  boom  of  falling  towers  and  walls. 
What  fires,  dust-smouldering,  flare?     What 

quarrel  now, 
For  beauty  wronged,  stirs  passionate  strength 

to  smite? 
What  lover  with  fair  talk  and  broken  vow 
Steals  from  his  host's  door  laughing  in  the 

night? 
Helen,  sleep  well!    No  woman's  yearning  lips, 
Nor    eyes,    love-weary,    launch    these    deadly 

ships ! 


23 


A  MEETING 

Thank  you,  maiden  with  the  feather, 

With  the  green  and  sparkling  feather, 

In  your  hat ! 

Thanks,  that,  spite  of  dreary  weather, 

People  crowded  close  together, 

As  I  sat 

Taking  notes,  my  eyes  could  see, 

Like  the  fresh  leaves  of  a  tree 

In  the  Spring, 

All  the  feather's  merry  glee, 

Green  as  waves  are  said  to  be, 

Joyous  thing ! 

Thank  you,  maiden  with  the  feather, 

With  the  out-of-doors,  new  feather, 

Mocking,  bright! 

Though  the  musty  chair  of  leather, 

And  my  notes,  a  weary  tether, 

Held  me  tight; 

Still  your  feather,  jaunty,  gay, 

Whispered,  "Sometime,  on  a  day, 

Not  too  far, 

Spring,  all  spent  with  love  and  play, 

Shall  come  shining  down  the  way. 

Like  a  star." 


24 


FOR  TREES 


The  old  tree  lives  so  long, 

Because  each  year, 

April, 

For  a  short  singing  space, 

Brings  tiny  leaves. 

Would  that  I  might 

As  the  ancient  tree  in  Spring, 

Fold  a  green  scarf  about  me, 

And  be  young. 

If  I  could  sleep  so  long 

Under  the  snow, 

As  the  trees  of  the  orchard, 

So  might  the  sun 

Make  me  to  bear  white  blossoms 

For  a  thousand  years. 


25 


MINOR  POET 

It  is  not  that  you  had  only  one 

Very  good  thought, 

Great  men  survive,  as  a  rule, 

By  not  more  than  five  —  sometimes  seven. 

But  they  have  a  way  of  riding  at  beauty 

With  a  lifted  spear, 

And  at  truth  with  a  sword. 

In  a  cloud  of  flame  and  battle  they  ride  — 

And  their  hands  are  torn. 

And  you  —  you  said  a  great  many  things, 
With  one  good  one. 

But  there  are  no  high,  invisible  banners 
Waving  about  your  words ; 
There  is  no  mist  in  your  throat, 
And  the  stars  do  not  choke  you ! 


26 


FOR  A  CHILD 

I  do  not  know  what  day  I  came  away 

From  that  quaint  shining  country  where  you 

find 
Fair  things  so  near;  trees  that  bend  down  to 

play, 
White  mushroom  tables  where  the  elves  have 

dined 
Beside  the  door,  while  you  were  fast  asleep; 
And  everywhere  strange  moving  things  to  touch, 
A  shadow  leaf  to  hold,  but  not  to  keep, 
And  little  furry  animals  to  clutch. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  I  listen  to  you  tell 
Of  this  gay  land;  the  moon  that  follows  you 
Into  the  house,  the  goblin  with  his  bell, 
All  silvery  at  night;  to-morrow,  what  you'll  do; 
I  marvel,  since  the  light  may  fall  so  gray; 
I  did  not  know  —  that  day  I  came  away. 


27 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

(CHICAGO  ART  MUSEUM) 

Well  have  they  placed  you  here,  poor  fright- 
ened maid, 
Fleeing  the  very  shadows  and  the  wind, 
Strayed  —  ah,  so  many  centuries  ago, 
From  your  blithe  sisters  in  Thessalian  woods. 
It  comforts  not  —  the  statue-peopled  room, 
The  solemn  visitors  with  catalogues, 
Unfiltered  sunlight  on  you  where  you  stand! 
Still  are  you  lost,  and  now  more  lost  than  when, 
Scanning  dim  forest  aisles,  and  untried  paths, 
With  hand  to  brow  and  tears  and  smothered 

calls, 
You  fled  and  knew  not  where. 
Are  not  we,  with  our  hats,  our  gloves  and  shoes, 
Dark  leather  bags,  umbrellas  and  lorgnettes, 
More  to  be  feared  than  satyrs  at  their  play, 
Or  teasing  faun's  quaint  mockery  of  despair? 


28 


TO  A  GRASSHOPPER 
(for  m.  s.  a.) 

O  mad  musician,  singing  in  the  grass, 
Trusting  green  ways  and  clear  September  sky, 
How  should  you  think  that  crimson  leaves  will 

pass, 
The  towering  golden-rod  bend  down  to  die; 
Or  that  the  flame-cupped  poppy,  blooming  here, 
Shall  lend  its  petals  to  you  for  a  bier? 

With  warmth  you  come,  and  with  the  warmth 

will  go, 
Troubadour,  piping  to  the  summer  sun, 
Knight  of  the  earth,  so  stanch  you  do  not  know 
Your  shining  armor  is  of  gossamer  spun; 
So  brave  with  living  that  you  will  not  heed 
The  wind,  that  gossips  snowfall  with  a  reed. 

And  so,  sing  on,  nor  fear  the  winter's  breath, 
You,  who  have  never  known  the  touch  of  frost; 
Aye,  serenade  the  very  halls  of  death, 
And  cease  with  summer  —  wondering  and  lost 
In  freezing  blasts,  you  did  not  dream  might  fall 
Upon  a  world  where  light  and  song  were  all ! 


29 


FUTILITY 

Across  the  iron  wheel 

Of  the  powerful  engine 

A  tiny  spider  has  spun  in  the  night 

His  fragile  web. 

Now,  at  magnificent  ease, 

He  sits  in  the  center 

Awaiting  his  prey. 

It  does  not  occur  to  him 

That  the  eight-forty-five  will  start  on  time, 

In  spite  of  his  preparation  for  quarry, 

And  a  long  day 

Of  hunting. 


30 


FULFILLMENT 

Some  dusk  the  door  I  strive  against  shall  give, 
And  I  shall  see  the  garden  veiled  in  gray, 
Friendly  as  that  faint  dream  I  made  to  live, 
And  fought  for,  with  bare  hands,  the  long  white 
day. 

I  shall  go  in  to  flowers  gently  blown, 
White-blossomed  trees,  and  paths  of  healing 

sands, 
I  shall  go  in,  and  I  shall  take  my  own  — 
A  stranger  with  unsightly  bleeding  hands. 


3i 


DEATH-MASK  OF  AN  UNKNOWN 
SOLDIER 

Death  is  dark  sleep  and  death  is  very  still, 
Yet  in  this  sleeping  face,  shadowed,  too  lean, 
There  lives  a  little  smile  aloof  and  chill, 
A  little  mocking  smile  that  lurks  between 
The  even  lips  firm-sealed,  final  as  stone, 
And  the  nostril's  subtle  lift;  the  eyes  are  stern, 
And  in  their  hollows  dark  all  pain  is  shown; 
Yet  the  face  smiles  in  gentle  unconcern. 

Something  he  knew  too  surely  as  he  came 
To  the  narrow  door,  with  youth  upon  his  head, 
Something  he  saw,  as  by  a  livid  flame, 
Paltry,  amusing,  commonplace  instead 
Of  what  he'd  thought;  and  so  he  closed  his  eyes. 
The  dead  should  not  be  cynical  and  wise. 


32 


ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT,   1917 

You  heap  the  logs  and  try  to  fill 
The  little  room  with  words  and  cheer, 
But  silent  feet  are  on  the  hill, 
Across  the  window  veiled  eyes  peer. 

The  hosts  of  lovers,  young  in  death, 
Go  seeking  down  the  world  to-night, 
Remembering  faces,  warmth  and  breath  - 
And  they  shall  seek  till  it  is  light. 

Then  let  the  white-flaked  logs  burn  low, 
Lest  those  who  drift  before  the  storm 
See  gladness  on  our  hearth  and  know 
There  is  no  flame  can  make  them  warm. 


33 


HAVOC 

There  has  been  ruin  of  old  and  swift  decay, 
The  sand  has  taken  cities  in  the  night, 
And  with  its  yellow  silence  smiled  away 
House-top  and  wall  and  turret  gay  with  light; 
And  the  gray  sea  has  spun  a  misty  shroud 
For  ships  adventuring  to  their  doom  unseen, 
While  the  high  wrath  of  some  black-shouldered 

cloud 
Has  wasted  loveliness.  These  things  have  been ! 
But  I  have  known  what  all  the  years  have 

lost, 
In  one  new  ruin  slow  crumbling  to  its  bed  — 
A  forest  of  tall  trees  stark  after  frost, 
The  gaunt  boughs  dark  above  their  scattered 

dead; 
Here  is  an  end  —  a  waste  where  winds  shall 

blow 
As  through  a  city,  dust  how  long  ago ! 


34 


KHAKI 


Under  the  slow-turning  suns, 

Age  after  age, 

A  bending  animal, 

A  stooped  thing, 

Whose  seed  was  yet  to  be  man  — 

Has  fought  through  many  deaths 

To  one  end  — 

Uprightness  and  aloofness 

From  mud. 

But  to-day  I  saw  a  column  of  men 

Marching  on  a  field, 

Striving  again  to  be  one 

With  mud. 


35 


MAMMON  REDEEMED 

We,  Mammon,  have  made  you  free, 

Westerners,  sons  of  the  high  noon, 

Body  and  spirit  glad! 

Out  of  the  evil,  like  yourself,  that  is  in  us, 

Out  of  the  good,  like  daylight  in  our  blood, 

We  have  gone  down  to  your  habitation ! 

The  caverns  of  gluttony,  wilderness  of  lust, 

Litter  of  broken  dreams  and  gold-clogged  hopes, 

Fearless  we  passed  and  drew  you  forth; 

You  of  the  shrunken  body,  and  sun-blind  eyes, 

God  of  the  hollowed  hands, 

Huge,  web-fingered,  older  than  Cain, 

Hands  that  have  held  the  earth, 

As  a  thin-shelled,  misformed  egg, 

And  hatched  it  to  their  shape. 

You  do  we  place  above  us  in  the  square, 

And  worship  with  bold  eyes ; 

For  we  are  weary  of  praying  in  the  dark, 

Denying  whom  we  love, 

Neglecting  our  benefactor. 

Do  we  not  know  with  whom  we  walk  and  live? 

O  Builder,  Wrecker  of  the  blind,  brute  ways, 

Your  strength  is  hunger  and  your  grip  is  need. 

You  may  we  not  put  off! 

Ever  the  body  chain  must  bind  us  to  you; 

How  far  we  go,  we  may  not  lose  its  straining; 

The  very  stars  we  win  are  bought  in  bondage, 

36 


MAMMON    REDEEMED 

And  not  one  deed  but  bears  the  shackle's  scar 

Across  its  root. 

All  that  is  good,  swift-growing,  wide  and  free 

Beneath  the  hands  of  men, 

Lives  of  your  nourishment, 

And  who  would  work  his  will  in  love  and  dream 

Must  bear  your  gifts. 

Wherefore,  Mammon,  the  word ! 

After  the  age-old  night,  the  fearful  hiding, 

You  stand  beneath  the  day, 

Reclaimed  of  men. 

And  men  shall  give  to  you, 

By  all  the  healing  wonder  of  the  sun, 

A  soul ! 


37 


THE  GOBLIN  AT  RHEIMS 

From  his  high  arch,  nestled  in  stony  nook, 
He  used  to  leer  across  the  twilight  space 
Of  the  great  aisle  —  the  goblin  with  the  book, 
Bent  in  huge  hands.    Half  lost  in  ivoried  lace 
Of  shadow  carving,  scrolls   and  thick-twined 

gorse, 
His  savage  face  was  sly  with  some  dark  jest; 
I  thought  it  strange  he  lived  so  cruel,  coarse, 
Above  five  centuries'  drifted  prayer  and  rest. 

To-day  I  knew  him  by  his  evil  sneer, 
In  shattered  rose-glass,  fretwork,  fallen  towers; 
And  wondered  if  he  told  his  maker's  fear 
Of  this  far  shame.     But  no  —  who  dreamed 

these  flowers, 
Modeled  of  light,  this  laughing  cherub's  wing, 
How  should  he  think  men's  hands  might  do 

this  thing? 


38 


UNHEALED 


In  the  winter  when  the  snow 
Cried  beneath  the  laden  dray, 
Looking  on  my  grief  I  said, 
"Glad  am  I  the  winter  day, 
Not  the  sparkling  month  of  May, 
Sees  my  love  thus  broken,  dead." 

But  alas,  now  May  has  come, 
Stirred  the  earth  to  song  and  light, 
Filled  the  air  with  whispering, 
Cries  my  heart  in  fettered  might, 
"Love  that  dies  in  tears  and  night 
Dies  anew  each  day  of  Spring." 


39 


PURCHASE 1 

They  shall  come  in  and  chat,  their  purses  hid, 
The  men  who  hold  rare  things  and  gently  smile; 
They  shall  disturb  frail  musty  sheets,  and  bid 
A  fortune  for  this  letter  or  gray  file 
Of  parchment,  nobly  written  by  the  hand 
That  loved  to  gleam  in  gems  and  curious  rings, 
Point  out  a  man  for  death;  give  castles,  land, 
Or  rest  on  ermined  shoulders  of  tall  kings. 
And  through  the  room,  as  from  an  unsealed 

urn, 
Shadows  will  drift,  faint  shapes  of  Florence, 

dead, 
Born  of  these  records  men  shall  lift  and  turn, 
Knowing  as  he  who  gave  the  artists  bread 
For  white  madonnas,  saints,  God's  cloudy 

throne, 
A  man  may  buy  what  he  can  never  own ! 

*  Certain  letters  written  by  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  are  sold 
at  auction. 


40 


FLANDERS  HILL 

A  forest  of  sharp  skeletons  flame-seared, 
They  stand  above  the  hill,  the  ancient  trees, 
A  Waste  of  broken  trunks  the  shells  have  cleared 
Of  swaying  branch  and  leaf  and  woodland  ease. 

So  still  they  are,  the  Spring  shall  turn  aside, 
Summer  shall  never  touch  their  blackened  sleep, 
They  know  —  they  know  earth's  laughing  heart 

has  died, 
The  ancient  trees,  whose  roots  have  pierced  so 

deep. 


41 


THE  SONS  OF  ICARUS 

Up  through  the  clouds,  and  higher,  higher  still, 
Flew  Icarus  the  free,  on  untried  wings, 
Mad  with  the  song-filled  spaces  of  the  blue, 
Encircling  dome  —  outsoaring  wantonly 
The  cloud-sailed  galleons  and  the  wind-built 

walls 
Of  dim,  mist  citadels  that  plunged  and  swayed, 
Or,  crumbling,  died  in  rainbow  agonies. 

Below,  an  opal,  rimmed  in  liquid  gold, 

The  earth,  his  prison  lay,  a  thing  for  scorn, 

Chained  by  the  flashing  tides. 

White  Icarus 

Breasting  the  swirling  waves  of  jeweled  snow, 
Flew  on  —  the  mighty  winds  against  his  face, 
The  songs  of  unseen  stars  within  his  ears, 
And  gilded  arches  of  the  upper  sky 
Before  his  ardent  gaze;  flew  till  he  lost 
Remembrance  of  the  earth  he  once  had  loved, 
The  blossomed  Spring  and  Autumn's  golden 

wine, 
The  hearth-stone  of  his  mother  and  the  ways 
Of  men,  who  live  with  feet  upon  the  ground; 
Forgot  —  0  triumph  of  the  winged  air, — 
The  Cretan  woe,  the  scar  beneath  his  wings; 
And  soaring,  singing,  mounting  ever,  felt 
42 


THE  SONS  OF  ICARUS 

The  motion  steal  his  body's  bone  and  weight, 
Until  at  last,  he  knew  a  surging  warmth, 
And  lifting  dauntless  eyes,  beheld  unveiled, 
Full-splendored  on  his  throne  of  light  —  the 
God. 

A  moment  paused  the  wings  of  Icarus, 
A  moment  swayed  he,  mindful  of  a  dream, 
A  voice  once  heard,  an  echo  of  the  earth; 
Then  with  a  madder  song  more  swiftly  rose, 
Until  the  white  glow  smote  his  very  heart, 
Broke  wide  the  mortal  prison  where  it  beat, 
And  set  it  free  at  last,  a  thing  of  light, 
To  live  forever,  singing  in  the  blue, 
Nor  heeding  that  a  body's  sky-wrecked  ruin 
Plunged  to  a  violet  sea. 

And  heedless  are  the  after-men  who  hear, 
On  still,  blue  noons,  or  in  the  gold  of  dawn, 
The  wonder  of  the  sun-freed  heart  that  sings, 
Waking  a  strange  sky-yearning  in  their  breasts, 
The  lift  of  wings,  the  glory  of  far  clouds, 
Calling  aloft  the  children  of  the  air. 

Eager  they  listen,  then  with  crafty  tools 
They  make  the  wings,  brave,  man-made  wings 

as  his, 
That  tremble  to  the  hands,  strain  to  the  winds, 
And  strongly  bear  through  pathless  ways  untried 
The  bird-souled  sons  of  Icarus  the  Mad. 
43 


POEMS 

0  men  of  earth,  who  dare  the  sun's  fierce 

strength, 
Inheritors  of  unfamiliar  space, 
Flying  too  near  the  breaking  point  of  law, 
The  rift  where  worlds  divide  —  yours  still  the 

wings ! 
Not  broken  as  they  fall,  a  tattered  shroud, 
But  banners  of  the  air,  flags  of  the  vast 
Uncharted,  scarred  by  swords   of  flame  and 

wind, 
That  play  in  vacancy  —  the  flashing  seal, 
Borne  to  the  conquered  kingdom's  utmost  edge, 
Set  in  the  windy  gateway  of  the  sky, 
Marking  possession  to  eternity, 
And  flung  to  earth,  the  star-dust  in  their  folds, 
A  pledge  that  men  shall  yet  be  borne  with 

wings ! 


44 


THE  BRIGAND 

Those  days  I  walked  with  pirate  and  glad 

thieves 
Are  somehow  lost;  there  is  no  ogre  now, 
No  crook-backed  witch  who  croons  the  while 

she  weaves, 
Nor  Spanish  brigand  with  his  knitted  brow; 
That  merry  devil's  brood  who  seized  their  gold, 
Hid  treasure,  plundered,  strung  their  victims 

high, 
Are  shadows  on  a  page  —  and  I  am  old, 
My  ship  is  beached,  its  yellow  bottom  dry. 

And  yet  there  is  one  villain  black  and  grim, 
One  bandit  in  the  flesh  who  lays  his  snare 
Before  my  eyes,  and  at  his  cruel  whim 
Leaps  on  his  prey  and  kills  —  with  what  an 

air! 
The  spider,  hairy-legged,  still  plies  his  trade, 
Red-sashed  he  comes,  between  his  teeth  the 

blade! 


45 


ELEANOR  AT  THREE 

I  saw  the  sunlight  on  a  lake, 
I  heard  a  bird  sing  in  his  tree, 
A  rose  I  had  no  heart  to  break, 
An  April  breeze  were  kind  to  me; 
And  when  to  them  I  held  arms  wide, 
I  found  you,  Eleanor,  inside. 

Held  you,  all  dancing  light  and  gold, 
Dim  fragrance,  music  —  and  I  said, 
"Here  is  a  sunbeam  I  may  hold 
For  all  my  fingers  are  of  lead. 
Here  is  the  Spring  dawn  come  to  stay, 
A  bird  that  will  not  fly  away." 

But  no  —  wind-fingers  caught  your  dress; 
The  leaves  called  and  you  had  to  go, 
With  all  the  treasured  loveliness 
Of  things  that  men  forget  to  know, 
In  earth's  worn  path,  so  glad,  so  new, 
You  thought  that  I  might  follow  you! 


46 


WINDOW-CANDLE 

I  shall  remember  many  nights, 

Of  hill  and  wind  and  sky; 

I  shall  remember  how  we  stood 

In  a  starry-hearted  solitude, 

Or  crossed  the  untamed,  moon-wise  wood, 

Putting  thorn-fingers  by; 

And  other  nights  of  near,  sweet  ways 
Shall  stay  with  me  —  but  last 
This  one  —  we  came,  day-worn  and  slow, 
Into  the  hedge-rimmed  path  we  know, 
And  saw  the  window-candle  glow, 
Will-o'-the-wisp  chained  fast. 


47 


TREASURE 

The  little  pilfering  hands  of  hours  and  days 
Bury  much  loveliness  and  treasured  gold, 
Savor  and  essence,  cloud  and  warm  scent  and 

haze, 
Small  things  accustomed,  all  too  frail  to  hold. 
But  I  would  have  remembrance  full  and  keen, 
Nor  yield  one  leaf,  or  cloud,  or  shadow's  blue, 
One  little  thrusting  wind,  one  hill's  tall  green, 
The  outer  way  of  wonder  we  passed  through. 
The  fear  grows  with  me  that  I  shall  forget, 
Never  your  love,  but  half-seen  things  of  grace, 
Beauty  we  took  and  marveled  at  and  set 
Aside,  half  blindly,  marking  not  its  place; 
This  wealth  put  by,  this  gold  too  faint  and  rare, 
I  cannot  count  —  and  yet,  I  cannot  spare. 


48 


FOLK-DANCE  CLASS 
(for  c.  f.) 

"For  to-day  is  the  first  of  May." 
(What  matter?   We  work  indoors.) 
"And  the  miller  grinds  his  flour  to-day." 
(Ours  comes  in  a  sack  from  the  stores.) 
"Green-gravel !    Green-gravel !    How  green  the 

grass  grows!" 
(That's  what  they  say,  but  nobody  knows.) 

The  dancers  in  the  shallow  hall 

Have  mad,  gay-colored  shadows  at  their  backs, 

The  heavy  dancers  flat  of  chest  and  small, 

Who  have  not  seen  the  corn,  nor  cut  the  flax; 

Yet  dimly  know, 

Under  the  music's  hurrying  lash, 

Who  are  these  shadows  tossing  wanton  heads, 

Letting  their  ribbons  blow, 

Blue,  green,  and  flaming  reds, 

Making  their  cymbals  clash. 

The  heavy  dancers  know,  as  if  a  sign 

Had  passed  —  a  word  had  made  them  kin, 

To  these  who  haunt  the  music  with  their  fine 

Free  bodies,  beckoning  brown  and  lean, 

Beyond  the  walls  —  until,  with  shout  and  din, 

The  dancers  wake,  thrust  through  the  screen 

That  holds  them  in, 


49 


POEMS 

And  lift  their  heads,  and  stamp  their  feet  and 

run, 
As  through  a  village  gate  on  to  a  green, 
A  village  green  that  leads  into  the  sun. 

"Mother,  may  I  go  out  to  swim?" 

(You  may  stitch  on  black  till  your  eyes  are 

dim.) 
"And  where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid?" 
(To  work  in  the  factory,  sir,  she  said.) 
"Oh,  London  Bridge  is  falling  down." 
(But  not  the  smoke-stacks  in  our  town.) 

The  music  tears  their  bodies  with  its  hands, 
Stirs  them  as  sight  of  fire  on  a  wide  plain 
At  night;  lulls  them  with  crooning;  brands 
Their  sense  with  heat  of  sun  on  fields  of  grain. 
The  mounting  rhythm  tugs  at  them  and  beats 
Their  blood,  as  winds  beat  water  to  a  foam, 
Whirls  them  through  little  towns  with  crooked 

streets, 
And  drives  them  madly  home! 
All  in  an  instant,  while  an  old  tune  sings, 
These  children,  starved  of  day  and  song  and 

mirth, 
Touch  with  their  naked  feet  the  naked  earth 
That  wakens  in  them,  rings 
Through  them  into  a  cry  that  they  have  known, 
But  have  forgot  — 

50 


FOLK-DANCE  CLASS 

The  cry  of  earth  unto  her  alien  own, 

Who  have  earth's  sap  for  blood  and  ore  for 

bone, 
And  are  made  strong, 
With  feet  upon  the  soil  like  planted  stone, 
And  red  lips  shaped  to  song. 

"For  to-day  is  the  first  of  May." 
(We  shall  see  the  sunlight  burn.) 
"And  the  miller  grinds  his  flour  to-day." 
(We  shall  watch  the  mill-wheel  turn.) 
"Green-gravel !    Green-gravel !    How  green  the 

grass  grows!" 
(We  shall  tread  it  down  with  our  naked  toes.) 


51 


PERFECTION 

Very  likely  the  savage 

Who  moulded,  a  thousand  years  ago, 

The  terra-cotta  jar, 

Irregular,  lovely,  with  thumb-marks  burned  on 

its  sides, 
And  finely  penciled,  uneven  lines  at  the  neck, 
Dreamed  of  a  contour, 
Round,  without  blemish,  smooth, 
As  this  one,  which  I  have  bought 
At  the  ten-cent  store. 


52 


BAGDAD 

The  tavern  at  the  cross-roads  of  the  world 
Sleeps  in  the  sun,  held  by  an  ancient  dream; 
Its  door  of  gold,  gem-crusted  and  impearled, 
Still  welcomes  to  dim  halls  the  creeping  stream 
Of  wanderers,  beggars,  princes  in  disguise, 
Lean,  sun-bronzed  men  of  steppe  and  desert 

seas, 
Who  rest  at  last  beneath  the  low,  starred  skies, 
Telling  the  journey  in  the  tavern's  ease. 
And  what  mad  storms  this  later  day  may 

send, 
What  winds  of  death  may  rise  and  smite  and 

weep, 
Shall  have  their  way  and  pass  —  such  is  the  end 
Of  storms  and  even  death  —  nor  touch  this 

sleep. 
For  lo!  The  tavern,  with  the  door  of  gold, 
Dreams  and  knows  not  the  thousand  tales  are 

told! 


53 


BREAKING  THE  MOULDS 

We  are  breaking  up  the  moulds 

With  a  rattle  and  a  clatter, 

Wielding  hammers  at  strongholds, 

Laughing  as  the  fragments  scatter, 

And  our  hands,  once  brave  for  making, 

Tear  and  hurl  and  crush  and  batter, 

With  a  frenzy  in  the  breaking, 

And  a  passion  that  shall  shatter 

All  the  moulds, 

The  ancient  moulds, 

In  this  white  hour  of  our  waking. 

So  we  swing  the  hammers  high, 
Braces  yield  and  walls  grow  slack, 
Spires  topple  from  the  sky, 
Roof-trees  massive,  chimneys  black, 
Mosque  and  temple,  shop  and  jail, 
Make  a  litter  like  the  sack 
Of  a  town  in  some  old  tale, 
When  the  moulds  began  to  crack, 
All  the  moulds, 
The  ancient  moulds, 
Weighed  and  wanting  in  the  scale. 

But  a  new  world  shall  be  won, 
That  no  hand  shall  smite  or  tear  — 
So  we  cry,  who  stumble,  run, 
54 


BREAKING  THE  MOULDS 

Hammers  lifted,  while  we  spare 

One  small  mould  —  two  feet,  two  hands, 

And  a  round  head  hot  with  hair! 

This  the  mould  that  scars  and  brands 

With  its  flaw,  what  worlds  we  dare  I 

This  the  mould, 

The  ancient  mould, 

That  yields  and  bends  and  cracks  —  but  stands ! 

We  are  breaking  up  the  moulds 

With  a  rattle  and  a  clatter, 

Wielding  hammers  at  strongholds, 

Laughing  as  the  fragments  scatter, 

Singing  as  our  chisels  gnaw, 

Biting  through  the  stones  we  shatter, 

Breaking  without  rule  or  law  — 

Moulds  must  go  —  it  does  not  matter  — 

All  the  moulds, 

The  ancient  moulds, 

Shaped  of  one  mould  with  a  flaw! 


55 


SILHOUETTE 

It  quivered  from  the  ground 

And  felt  the  air  uphold  its  struggling  wings, 

The  mounting  aeroplane  1 

In  the  dim  theater  we  watched  its  course 

Upon  the  screen, 

And  saw  it  rise,  until  the  villages 

Were  as  toy  houses  ranged  along  a  floor, 

Till  rivers  and  the  roads  seemed  swirls  of  tape, 

And  only  clouds  were  man-sized  things  and 

true! 
So,  up  and  up  —  across  wide  plains  of  sky 
The  sharp  wings  fared; 
And  we  sat  wondering,  feet  upon  the  earth, 
But  spirits  lifted,  racing  with  keen  winds 
That  fly  between  the  stars. 
And  then  —  he  stood  — 
The  bulky  man  in  front, 
Drew  on  his  coat,  humped  in  thick  folds, 
His  gloves, 

Rounded  his  back  and  stooped  to  find  his  hat, 
Stood  square, 

And  blotted  out  the  fluttering  thing  that  held, 
Singing  within  its  engine's  crowded  space, 
The  spirit  of  a  million  million  birds. 


56 


MUNITIONS 

He  wrapped  the  blunt-nosed  thing  and  took 
Its  brother  from  the  tray, 
And  that  he  wrapped  —  then  more  and  more, 
All  shining,  blunt-nosed,  by  the  score, 
And  wrapped  them  so  all  day. 

His  neighbor  laid  them  in  a  box, 
Another  fixed  the  lid; 
The  work  was  swift,  and  many  hands, 
Of  sundry  men  of  sundry  lands, 
Did  it,  as  they  were  bid. 

And  what  they  knew  of  blunt-nosed  things, 
No  word,  nor  shrewd  glance  said; 
The  work  was  theirs  —  this  much  was  good, 
For  men  must  live  and  have  their  food, 
Though  other  men  lie  dead ! 


57 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  CROWD 

I  saw  her  pass  and  said,  "The  flame  of  her 
Will  not  outlive  my  glance."    So  fragile,  proud, 
And  spendthrift  young,  she  burned  along  the 

crowd, 
A  darting  thing  of  rose  and  gold  and  myrrh, 
Riding  the  day's  glad  wonder  with  a  spur. 
The  motion  of  her  was  a  running  cloud, 
Her  promise  all  new  leaves  and  fields  fresh- 
ploughed. 
As  if  a  wild-plum  tree,  some  April  noon, 
Should  wake  and  fling  its  bounty  to  the  air, 
Beside  an  age-wise  ruin  with  creepers  grown, 
Trace  on  that  mould  its  light  and  shadow  rune, 
So  young  against  the  wall  —  and  yet  aware 
How,  in  one  hour,  it  had  outlived  the  stone. 


58 


TO  PETER  PAN 

Lend  me  your  pipes,  glad  Peter  Pan, 

Lend  me  your  pipes  to-day; 

The  windows  of  my  heart  are  dark, 

The  children  are  away; 

Unless  I  dance,  I  know  I'll  weep; 

Lend  me  your  pipes  to  play ! 

Dear  Peter  Pan,  I  too  would  be 
A  vagabond,  to  sing, 
And  yet,  before  I  thought,  the  world 
Had  trapped  me  by  my  wing. 
Now  I  am  wise  enough  to  know 
It  is  not  always  Spring. 

Give  me  your  pipes,  O  Peter  Pan; 

The  wind  is  bitter  cold; 

A  trouble  that  you  sang  to  sleep 

Has  wakened  up  to  scold; 

I  almost  fear  —  but  whisper  it  — 

Some  day  I  shall  grow  old. 

And  that  I  cannot  think  to  do 
When  all  the  world  is  fair, 
And  folk  are  going  up  and  down 
With  ribbons  in  their  hair, 
And  smiles  and  eyes  are  beckoning 
Like  May  flowers  in  the  air ! 
59 


TO  PETER  PAN 

Lend  me,  glad  Peter  Pan,  your  pipes, 

And  call  your  trusty  band, 

To  drive  away  this  grown-up  woe; 

O,  take  me  by  the  hand, 

And  lead  me,  for  I  cannot  see, 

To  Never  Never  Land ! 


60 


FOREIGN  NEWS 

From  half  across  the  world 

These  yellowish,  strangely  printed  papers  come, 

Pages  too  tightly  furled, 

With  tales  I  know  of  slaughter  and  pogrom  — 

I  slip  into  my  chair,  tilt  higher 

A  low  light  at  my  elbow.    But  the  tea 

Is  still  too  hot  to  drink,  and  so  I  skim 

Headings  that  wail  of  exile,  murder,  fire, 

Of  laden  backs  slow  passing  to  the  sea, 

Bent  figures  hurt  in  fiber,  mind,  and  limb. 

I  think  I  do  not  see  what  things  I  read, 

Or  else  I  could  not  read  and  slowly  sip 

Comforting  tea.    This  hunger  and  this  need 

Touch  me  with  horror  —  and  yet  feebly  slip 

Into  a  cache, 

An  area  off-focus,  not  quite  true. 

I  cannot  think  that  I 

Would  shake  lean,  starving  fingers  from  my 

dress, 
And  pass  old  women  crouching  in  the  street, 
Or  shapeless  dead  —  pass  calmly  by 
And  stare  quite  through 

Their  ancient  woe  and  tears  and  blind  distress, 
To  come  indoors  to  eat ! 


61 


POEMS 

And  yet  I  do  this  thing, 

Suffer  with  those  who  suffer  —  just  so  much  — 

And  quite  avoid  the  rude  attack  and  clutch 

Of  panic  —  presence  of  the  unknown  dark. 

I  think  I  have  a  gift  for  locking  in 

Unpleasant  agony  and  facts  too  stark, 

With  the  old  and  shadowy  sin 

Of  old  dead  lands  half  shadowy  and  mad, 

That  hardly  matter  now. 

And  since  I  would  prefer  earth  to  be  glad, 

I  know  well  how 

To  group  disturbing  tales  of  blood  and  wrong 

With  Moloch,  Blue-beard's  wives,  and  such  as 

these, 
To  keep  far  from  me —  bread-lines  three  blocks 

long, 
And  old  men  slain  in  cellars  on  their  knees. 


62 


ON  THE  TOWN 

The  tree  at  the  door  of  the  saloon 

Is  brazen  and  sordid. 

It  lifts  to  the  sun  worm-eaten  leaves, 

Branches  whose  curves  have  grown  stiff 

With  evil  living. 

The  hunger  of  crowds  surging  past, 

Coarse  laughter,  cries  and  heavy  feet, 

The  lurchings  of  drunken  men, 

Have  touched  and  corrupted  this  tree, 

Withered  it  like  a  harlot, 

In  old  age  shrill  and  selfish, 

Meager  of  shade. 

The  wind  in  its  branches, 

Impudent  and  too  free, 

Stirs  the  brown  leaves  to  ribald  whisperings. 


63 


A  MURDER 

There  is  much  talk  and  stir 
About  this  puzzling  case, 
A  stain,  a  scarf's  torn  fur 
Found  in  a  grimy  place. 

Detectives,  hats  pushed  back, 
Cough,  turning  and  thrusting  about, 
Like  dogs  of!  scent  and  slack  — 
Weighing  grave  doubt  and  doubt. 

Reporters  chatting  stand 

On  the  stair,  or  swarm  through  the  hall, 

One  with  a  long  gray  hand 

Lifts  a  snap-shot  from  the  wall. 

The  snow  that  the  shoes  track  in 
Turns  brown  on  the  carpeted  floor, 
A  high  bell  pierces  the  din, 
A  heavy  hand  rattles  the  door. 

And  above,  on  a  narrow  bed, 
Where  the  women  shudder  and  weep, 
A  girl  with  a  fair  young  head 
Is  sleeping  an  old  old  sleep. 


64 


DEATH  WILL  NOT  DARE 

Of  all  the  cloudy  armies  that  have  passed 
Down  the  gray  earth,  there  is  no  soul  that 

knew 
To  vanquish  death;  but  each  alone,  at  last, 
Has  felt  a  weariness,  a  wind  that  blew 
Heavy  with  sleep  —  and  so  has  laid  him  down. 
Robert  the  Strong,  whose  spear  no  man  could 

hurl, 
Richard  and  William  of  the  Dreadful  Frown, 
Have  slept  with  glassy  eyes,  as  might  a  churl. 
But  I,  who  still  am  warm  and  breathe  the 

air, 
Cannot  believe  this  dim  unlikely  end. 
Those  others  have  been  trapped!    Death  will 

not  dare 
To  come  to  me,  low-whispering,  as  a  friend; 
This  body  that  I  am  can  never  lie 
So  heedless  and  so  chill,  as  those  who  die. 


6S 


A  PARTING 

Bright  afternoon,  the  public  square, 
We  stood  and  thought  to  say  good-bye; 
The  crowd  went  past,  all  unaware, 
With  talk  and  clang  and  newsboy  cry; 
We  were  just  any  two,  as  they, 
In  dark-stuff  clothes,  well-fed  and  gay. 

And  yet,  for  all  the  sound  and  light, 

I  knew  the  moment's  offering. 

Words?    But  your  lips  were  of  the  night - 

Low-flying  clouds,  and  rain-sweet  Spring, 

And  through  the  parting's  gray  disguise 

I  felt  your  kisses  on  my  eyes. 


66 


FOR  AN  OLD  LADY  TO  WHOM 
SONNETS  HAD  BEEN  WRITTEN 

He  praised  in  lines  that  everybody  knew 
Her  hands,  her  brow,  her  pale  and  lovely  face; 
He  dared  not  say  (he  was  Victorian  too) 
How  he  was  haunted  by  her  body's  grace; 
He  linked  her  name  with  magic  names  and  old, 
Helen,  Iseult,  Queen  Meave  and  Guinevere, 
He  swore  that  years  should  never  make  her 

cold, 
Nor  death  appall  her  merry  heart  with  fear. 
But  when  I  see  her  bending  on  her  stick, 
So  careful  where  she  steps  —  I  know  at  last, 
That  earth  is  old  and  April  but  a  trick, 
That  Troy  is  gone  and  Tyre  and  Sidon  have 

passed ! 
I  think  I  saw  their  high  towers  falling  down, 
In  an  old  lady's  bleak,  impatient  frown. 


67 


INHERITANCE 


Prometheus,  pitying  men, 

Dared  the  long  wrath  of  gods, 

Thongs  and  the  vulture  — 

To  bring  to  earth 

The  fire, 

Before  which  I  drowse, 

In  utter  well-being. 


68 


PIERROT 


How  could  I  sleep  so  long; 

The  moon  was  low; 

How  could  I  close  my  eyes 

On  shadow,  star,  and  skies, 

And  never  know 

The  soft  air  held  your  song? 

How  could  I  sleep  so  long, 

0  Pierrot? 

To-night  I  do  not  sleep; 
The  moon  is  low; 
Beside  my  casement  wide 

1  watch  the  shadows  glide; 
So  long  ago 

You  sang  —  alas,  I  weep, 
To-night  I  do  not  sleep, 
0  Pierrot! 


69 


GIFTS 


She  tilts  her  face  and  smiles  and  asks 
Some  quaint  gift  for  her  play, 
The  friendly  little  girl  next  door, 
Who  thinks  I  have  a  magic  store 
Of  lovely  things  —  balloons  and  more  - 
Wonder  for  every  day. 

And  I  am  just  a  bit  amused 
At  her  calm,  trusting  air; 
I  who  have  somehow  grown  to  be 
Older  so  many  years  than  three, 
Still  asking  all  expectantly 
For  beauty  —  everywhere! 


70 


THE  WAKEFUL  DARK 

There  is  a  crowd  upon  the  air  to-night; 

The  leaves  are  out, 

Clustered  and  gathered  to  the  farthest  tip 

Of  the  dim  branches'  edge. 

All  in  a  day,  the  wet  wind  called 

And  they  rushed  forth, 

Bearing  the  fragrance  of  the  trees'  deep  heart 

In  their  unfolding  wings. 

The  dark  is  thickly  plumed  and  tufted  where 

They  wait,  a  misty,  swinging  crowd 

Too  glad  for  sleep. 

Beside  my  window,  restless  too,  I  stand 

Athirst  like  leaf  and  garden 

For  the  day. 

And  when  the  moist  wind,  groping  for  more 

sweet, 
Lilac  or  violet,  or  the  new,  slim  buds, 
Touches  my  face, 
I  feel  the  petals  of  my  heart 
Tremble  and  open  wide, 
As  if  it  too 
Had  bloomed  upon  the  night. 


71 


HELEN  ON  THE  BATTLEMENT 

Upon  the  tower  she  stands  and  bends  above 
The  wall  that  rims   its  edge;   her  shoulders 

droop 
Beneath  the  jeweled  web  enfolding  them, 
Her  elbow  meets  the  stone,  and  in  the  hand, 
Cup-like  and  ivory-fingered,  rests  her  chin. 
The  lips  just  meet,  her  eyes  unshadowed,  calm, 
Dwell  on  the  sea  where  ride  the  Grecian  ships, 
Dwell  on  the  sun-bronzed  sea,  whose  waves 

touch  Greece. 
It  seems  she  feels  no  bitter  love,  no  care, 
This  quiet  eve;  the  southern  wind,  whose  wings 
Are  veiled  dreams,  had  stolen  all  her  thoughts; 
She  might  have  been  just  any  Trojan  maid, 
Had  she  not  been  so  fair ! 


72 


THE  DEFEATED 

I  saw  a  dark  procession 

Go  through  my  dream  all  night; 

A  line  of  women  weeping, 

A  black  line  swaying,  creeping, 

Above  a  road  too  white. 

And  after  it  came  children, 
Small  children  without  guile, 
Who  wore  no  black,  nor  wept, 
But  all  in  silence  stept, 
And  not  a  one  could  smile. 


73 


BLOWN  LEAVES 

The  Autumn  came  today  at  dawn 
With  wind  and  flying  cloud, 
And  that  dear  need  of  you  I  hide, 
Waked  to  the  yearning  wind  outside, 
Held  me  half-dreaming,  till  I  cried 
Your  name  —  your  name  aloud! 

But  later,  when  the  sun  was  up, 

And  Indian  Summer's  flame 

Spun  earth  to  gold  —  oh,  still  I  knew 

The  seeking,  lonely  wind  that  blew 

At  dawn  —  and  whirled  my  heart  to  you, 

A  leaf,  that  cried  a  name ! 


74 


STREET  OF   GOOD   FORTUNE  — 
POMPEII 

The  day  was  gray  —  a  film  of  misty  rain 
Blew  on  a  gentle  wind  through  unroofed  home, 
Temple  and  marble  bath.    The  stony  lane 
That  once  had  been  a  street  and  looked  toward 

Rome, 
Was  ghostly-still  and  broken  and  bereft; 
The  weeds   had  grown,   a   lizard  crawled  in 

fright 
Across  a  rut  by  some  swift  chariot  left, 
Hastening  in   panic   through   that  flame-shot 

night. 

The  cool  rain  fell  —  we  spoke  of  molten  rock 

Half  carelessly  —  of  sudden  death  and  fear, 

We  who  were  still  so  blithe  and  quick  to  mock, 

Who   baked   our   loaves,   thinking  to-morrow 

near; 
While  down  Good  Fortune  Street,  before  our 

eyes, 
A  green  hill  hissed  white  spirals  to  the  skies. 


75 


"HER  NAME  THEY  COULD  NOT  ASK" 
(for  j.  m'g.) 

I  have  heard  a  ballad  sung, 
I  have  listened  to  a  tale, 
Of  a  lady  blithe  and  young, 
Gay  of  laughter,  sweet  of  tongue, 
Fey  and  flower-pale. 

'None  there  was  who  knew  her  sire, 

None  knew  her  land  nor  home; 

Down  the  road  she  ran  like  fire, 

The  young  winds  tossed  her  laughter  higher  — 

Was  she  flame  or  foam? 

They  knew  not,  the  folk  who  fared 
To  field  or  simple  task. 
And  her  name  —  had  they  but  dared ! 
Alas,  they  only  smiled  and  stared. 
Her  name  they  could  not  ask. 

For  while  they  saw  her  face  they  knew 
Most  strange  and  lovely  things; 
A  rounding  coast  and  waters  blue, 
A  yellow  sail  the  sun  strikes  through, 
And  a  scarlet  bird  that  sings. 

Or  they  remembered  how  a  wall 
Takes  shadows  in  the  moon; 

76 


"HER  NAME  THEY  COULD  NOT  ASK" 

They  heard  again  the  Spring  rain  fall, 
And  once,  perhaps,  a  far  sweet  call 
Down  a  drowsy  afternoon. 

Then  she  was  gone  and  had  not  said 
Her  name  to  call  her  by. 
They  followed  long  where  she  had  fled, 
But  those  who  pressed  most  far  ahead, 
What  name  had  they  to  cry? 

I  have  heard  a  ballad  sung, 
Of  a  lady  fey, 

Of  a  lady  blithe  and  young, 
Gay  of  laughter,  sweet  of  tongue, 
I  saw  her  yesterday ! 


77 


FOR  THE   UNKNOWN  AUTHOR  OF 
HUMPTY-DUMPTY 

You  did  not  think  to  write  your  name 
Across  the  jingle  that  has  strayed 
Down  centuries  —  a  song,  a  game 
The  tiny  ones  of  earth  have  played. 

By  some  swift  sign  they  greet  and  know 
Your  solemn  hero  as  a  friend, 
They  hang  upon  his  tale  of  woe, 
And  laugh  —  despite  his  tragic  end. 

A  hundred  times  each  day  he  dies, 
Unaided  by  the  King's  good  men; 
And  yet  he  lives  in  wondering  eyes, 
The  small  hands  make  him  whole  again. 


78 


SPRING'S  WARES 

Comes  the  Spring  a  gypsy  merchant, 
Spreading  out  her  wares  for  me, 
Lace  of  shadow,  tender  shoots, 
Balm  and  gold  and  sleepy  roots, 
Cloud  embroidery. 

"Here's  pearl-white  anemone, 
Wet  with  snow  —  just  out;  and  here 
Lilac,  honeysuckle  vine, 
Hiding  flasks  of  honey- wine; 
One  wild  rose!    Too  dear? 

"Or  perhaps  this  bit  of  sun, 
I  give  it  with  a  butterfly, 
Would  you  look  at  blossom  trees? 
Peach  or  plum?    A  gold- wing  breeze! 
See  him  —  will  you  buy? 

"Last,  but,  Lady,  pray  beware, 
An  April  dusk,  all  violet-sweet 
Beneath  the  moon.  One  mad  thrush  calls, 
Earth  is  so  warm,  so  near !  Night  falls, 
Lovers'  lips  will  meet !" 

I,  the  winter-hearted,  search 
Spring's  new  basket  —  turn  away; 
Neither  under  star  nor  flower 
Could  I  find  the  singing  hour 
I  would  not  have  last  May. 
79 


A  CHILD 

The  little  maid  next  door  is  fair 
As  the  white,  wild-plum  in  May, 
She  runs  with  a  leap  and  flying  hair, 
But  tears  are  in  her  play. 

She  holds  my  hand  when  we  go  to  walk, 
Or  ride  in  the  crowded  car, 
Yet  her  round  eyes  shine  through  her  baby- 
talk, 
As  sad  as  the  fairest  star. 

I  tell  her  tales  of  elf  and  fern, 
Wee,  happy  folk  that  fly; 
She  hears  but,  oh,  where  did  she  learn 
To  smile,  and  then,  to  sigh? 


80 


"SALOME"  OF  HENRI  REGNAULT 

The  artist  has  called  you  "Salome," 

And  given  you  the  salver  and  the  sword, 

But  I  cannot  think  you  are  the  daughter  of 

Herodias. 
Your  beauty  is  complacent, 
It  is  drowsy  and  fully  revealed. 
You  have  slept  a  great  many  afternoons 
In  the  open  fields  of  Spain, 
And  have  wakened  laughing, 
To  lift  moist  tendrils  of  black  hair 
From  your  neck. 
The  lazy  sun  is  in  your  blood, 
In  the  winning  assurance  of  your  eyes, 
And  your  pleasant  mouth. 
I  know  that  you  are  a  dancer, 
For  your  ankles  are  a  trifle  heavy, 
And  you  would  rise  slowly  to  the  music; 
But  I  cannot  think  you  would  fancy,  as  a 

reward, 
The  head  of  John  the  Baptist, 
Or  that  you  would  refuse 
The  white  peacocks  of  the  King 
In  their  cypress  grove. 
You  are  not  the  new  moon  of  April, 
Nor  a  slender  flame  whitely  burning, 
Nor  the  young  leaves  of  Spring, 
Nor  the  wind  upon  the  waters; 
81 


"SALOME"  OF  HENRI  REGNAULT 

You  are  just  a  peasant  girl, 

Very  lovely  and  content, 

Musing,  while  you  pose, 

Of  a  festival, 

Or  a  bright  ribbon, 

Or  a  lover, 

Who  is  not  a  prophet. 


82 


FOREBODING 

There  is  an  ache  close  to  the  heart  of  things 

This  night,  and  tears  are  in  the  air, 

A  lurking  heaviness  the  far  wind  brings, 

And  blows  across  the  grayness  of  the  square. 

I  do  not  know  —  to-morrow  will  be  May, 

And  yet  there  is  no  song,  no  whispering  mirth, 

Only  a  burden  left  behind  the  day, 

A  shadow  fallen  dimly  on  the  earth. 

Is  it  that  Spring,  outdone  with  flowers   and 

light, 
Has  flung  herself  upon  the  ground  to  rest, 
And  dreamed,  as  I,  of  drouth  and  storm  and 

blight 
On  growing  things  —  her  gift  with  fruit  unblest; 
And  waking  in  the  dusk  from  this  strange  sleep, 
Found  in  her  laughing  heart  mad  tears  to  weep? 


83 


THE  POTTER'S  PARK1 

The  men  who  lay  in  Potter's  Field 

Slept  well  in  borrowed  graves, 

A  world  of  souls  that  death  had  healed, 

A  million  worthless  knaves, 

The  unclaimed  poor,  laid  row  on  row, 

Close  in  their  naked  bed, 

Rested  in  peace  and  did  not  know 

A  debt  may  bind  the  dead. 

In  ease  they  slept  —  the  thief,  the  drone 

Who  starved  upon  his  feet, 

The  quaking  beggar  and  the  crone, 

Found  in  the  public  street, 

The  laggard,  shadow  folk  who  passed, 

Or  shivered  as  they  stood, 

Stumbled  into  a  bed  at  last, 

For  which  they  chopped  no  wood ! 

And  as  they  slept,  they  little  knew, 

How  in  the  sun's  gold  grace, 

The  eager  city  pushed  and  grew 

And  claimed  their  resting-place, 

Until  —  they  would  have  laughed,  these  men, 

Dumb  in  the  crowded  dark  — 

1  There  is  a  public  park  in  New  York  City  on  the  site  of 
the  old  Potter's  Field. 


84 


THE  POTTER'S  PARK 

A  weighty  council  and  a  pen 
Made  Potter's  Field  a  park. 

A  park  with  benches,  shade  and  moss, 

Green  in  the  traffic  din, 

A  spot  for  happy  feet  to  cross  — 

The  city  bade  them  in; 

Yet  strange  it  was  to  see  who  came 

And  sat  beneath  the  trees, 

Gray  men  with  leaden  eyes  the  same 

And  hands  upon  their  knees. 

A  laggard,  shadow  host  they  stole 

Across  the  friendly  lawn, 

As  they  were  tethered  by  the  soul, 

Nor  knew  why  they  were  drawn; 

But  sat  them  down,  the  spent,  the  lean, 

Alone,  yet  side  by  side, 

A  Potter's  Field  in  gold  and  green, 

The  dead  who  have  not  died! 


8S 


DOWAGER 

The  hill  fronts  my  garden 

With  patronizing  calm, 

Spreading  stiff  skirts  about  her 

And  looking  down 

On  my  too  transient  flowers, 

With  the  inbred  contempt  of  old  blood 

For  the  less  old. 

And  yet  I  know  that  the  hill, 

Would  never  be  so  lofty  nor  secure, 

Nor  altogether  respectably  established, 

If  something  very  sudden 

Had  not  happened 

In  her  own  family. 


86 


THE  MASSEUSE 

Very  strong  and  flexile 

Are  the  fingers  of  Miss  Celia, 

The  shadowy,  lean  old-maid 

Who  brushes  my  hair, 

Or  rubs  out  the  tired  wrinkles  about  my  eyes. 

I  see  her  in  the  mirror, 

Working  in  creaseless  white, 

Bending  above  me  with  eager  deftness, 

An  exact  and  skillful  zeal, 

So  tender  in  its  assurance 

That  I  think  of  her  as  a  sweet,  gray  nun 

Toiling  strangely  for  the  flesh, 

Of  which  she  knows  nothing. 

Yet  at  times,  when  her  fingers  sink 
Into  the  living  tendrils  of  hair, 
Gold,  bronze,  or  black, 
Of  a  young  girl  with  half-closed  eyes 
And  heavy  lips, 

There  comes  into  Miss  Celia's  face 
A  strange  concealed  glow, 
A  sort  of  brooding  half  passion, 
As  if  her  hands  were  absorbing 
Some  of  the  thoughts 
Passing  through  the  brain 
Half  asleep  beneath  her  fingers. 


87 


COMPULSION 

I  shall  put  out  my  hand  and  raise  the  latch 
Of  this  gray  door,  go  in  and  let  it  close 
On  me  and  on  the  day.    The  bright  sun  patch 
Here  at  my  feet  will  fade,  the  iron  rows 
Of  coat-hooks  will  be  waiting,  and  stale  air 
Shall  reek  of  steam.    Although  the  Spring  has 

come 
Outside  and  clouds  are  high,  how  should  winds 

dare 
To  sing  a  fluttering  song  where  lips  are  dumb  ? 

And  I  go  in,  crushing  with  tears  the  will 
To  turn  and  give  myself  to  the  young  day; 
Yet  this  I  know  —  on  some  far  April  hill, 
Where  Spring  is  born,  there  falls  a  moment's 

gray—  ^ 
Stillness   on  wing  and  flower  and   mounting 

green, 
For  I  have  hurt  glad  things  I  have  not  seen ! 


88 


•   •  • 


••   •    ••   «•«••• 


•  •• 


•  -• 


DEGENERATE 

A  drowsy  butterfly 

With  frail  blue-spotted  wings, 

And  the  circling  gesture 

Of  a  scented  fan 

Swung  by  a  delicate  wrist  — 

Hovers  over  the  weeds 

At  the  edge 

Of  the  garbage  dump. 


89 


SNUFF-BOXES 

(morgan  collection,  metropolitan 
museum) 

These  gay  snuff-boxes  will  be  whispering  still 

Of  fragrant  satin  pockets  that  are  dust, 

Of  iron  wrists  beneath  a  lacy  frill, 

Or  candles  long  burnt-out,  or  swords  that  rust; 

Here  is  dim  gossip  told  in  merry  gems, 

A  dallying  glance,  a  hand  too  hotly  kissed; 

And  here  are  crests  for  pride,  and  diadems, 

Deep  set  in  sapphire  or  pale  amethyst. 

Trinkets  —  perhaps?     Or  dainty  souls  that 

went 
Enameled  too,  in  colors  frail  and  rare, 
So  idly  living  and  so  lightly  spent, 
They  make  a  music  still  upon  the  air, 
A  tinkling  tune  for  bow  and  stately  tread, 
That  will  play  on,  though  all  who  danced  are 

dead. 


90 


•  ••  •      » ••       •  •»,   »  »'  "  ' 

•         •    •  ->»    n    »  "«"»      ••       •     •  ti 


NEWSWOMAN 

Withered  by  frost  and  heat,  patient,  too  old, 
She  wears  a  yellow  scarf  and  strangely  cries 
The  news  —  a  Grecian  woman  who  has  told 
What  different  tales   beneath  what  different 
skies ! 

I  like  to  think,  when  in  the  windy  dark 
I  buy  my  paper,  that  the  coin  shall  pay 
A  certain  Ferryman  who  takes  his  bark 
Across  a  silent  River,  for  her  way. 


91 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S   .  A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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AFR   8  1922  / 

APR  3.0  1978 

IT® 

REC.'cm.  OCT 


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457620 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


